


Left the Tenderness of Tears

by Lurea



Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Background Character Death, Character Death, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Het, Hurt/Comfort, Suicidal Thoughts, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 02:30:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurea/pseuds/Lurea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo leaves the Shire forever and seems quite reconciled to it.  He does not curse his fate.  Why?  How did he come to terms with the loss and sacrifices in his life?  How do any of us come to terms with our grief?   Angst/Romance story with explicit sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Past Woe

**Author's Note:**

> Rosalinde and Helen
> 
> He dwelt beside me near the sea;  
> And oft in evening did we meet,  
> When the waves, beneath the starlight, flee  
> O’er the yellow sands with silver feet,  
> And talked. Our talk was sad and sweet,  
> Till slowly from his mien there passed  
> The desolation which it spoke;
> 
> Yet o’er his talk, and looks, and mien,  
> Tempering his loveliness too keen,  
> Past woe its shadow backward threw;  
> Till, like an exhalation spread  
> From flowers half drunk with evening dew,  
> They did become infectious---sweet  
> And subtle mists of sense and thought,  
> Which wrapped us soon, when we might meet,
> 
> Almost from our own looks and aught  
> The wild world holds. And so his mind  
> Was healed, while mine grew sick with fear;  
> For ever now his health declined,  
> Like some frail bark which cannot bear  
> The impulse of an altered wind,  
> Though prosperous; and my heart grew full,  
> ‘Mid it’s new joy, of a new care;  
> For his cheek became, not pale but fair,  
> As rose-o’ershadowed lilies are;  
> Like flowers, which on each other close  
> Their languid leaves when daylight’s gone,  
> We lay, till new emotion came,  
> Which seemed to make each mortal frame  
> One soul of interwoven flame,
> 
> A life in life, a second birth  
> In worlds diviner far than earth;---  
> Which, like two strains of harmony  
> That mingle in the silent sky,  
> Then slowly disunite, passed by  
> And left the tenderness of tears,  
> A soft oblivion of all fears,  
> A sweet sleep:
> 
> \---Shelley

Frodo Baggins was all the talk that morning at breakfast. My mother in law and her mother in law were sitting at my table chatting while I picked at my food.

“Remember when we first heard he was moving back to Buckland, Opal?” Dahlia asked, pushing a grey-streaked curl behind her ear.

Opal’s wrinkled old face creased in a wistful smile. “Tory brought the news back one trip, didn’t he?”

“Indeed he did. And all of Buckland was abuzz with it. And disappearing into the Old Forest and all…it’s a shame he’s come back in this sort of a state.”

“Really? What state?” Opal was all eager attention. I stirred my tea apathetically, trying to banish the images Dahlia’s words conjured up. I remembered well the concern and gossip over Mr. Frodo Baggins: his move to Buckland, strange men roaming the Shire asking about him and then he and Mr. Merry and Mr. Peregrin disappearing into the Old Forest. The whole Shire had talked of nothing else, but we in Buckland had had a special interest. 

On the night they vanished the Horn-call of Buckland was sounded for the first time in a hundred years. Fatty Bolger collapsed and was ill for two weeks, and Esmeralda, Merry’s mother, would allow no one to see him. She and Saradoc packed him off home indecently quick, and refused to discuss it. All they would say is that the young gentlemen were ‘missing, last seen headed into the Old Forest.’ 

“After all, young Merry has done well enough,” Dahlia went on. “Settled right down and being such a help to Saradoc.” 

Merry had always been very popular. At the time, most believed that Saradoc and Esmeralda had been quite unbalanced for refusing to hold a memorial service or even acknowledge that Merry was surely dead. Esmeralda made such a scene when Tilly asked when Merry would be listed in the funeral rolls that it was only discussed in whispers afterwards. 

“I thought Frodo had settled down, as well?” Opal asked idly, tucking her shawl closer around her shoulders. She chilled easily, the cumulative effects of ninety-four winters.

Dahlia sniffed. “If you call hiding in his hole settled, then yes. He’s given up being Mayor, did you know? And makes no sign of assuming the responsibilities of a Baggins at Bag End.” My husband, Tory, used to love to bring us news. He would tease us with a word or a hint, and we would fret, and then he’d tell us, putting everything together quick as a wink. It was amazing sometimes. Who would bring us news now?

“How do you know that?” I asked abruptly. Dahlia looked surprised. 

“I said earlier that Frodo is visiting Merry, dear, and I heard it from Esmeralda. I think she is a little worried about him.”

“Oh.” 

Opal patted my hand gently. “What are you doing this morning, Tansy?”

I folded my napkin carefully and stood up. I was in excellent health, with a strong constitution and so the room did not sway or tilt, despite my excesses the previous night. “I’m going for a walk,” I said with forced cheerfulness. “It’s a beautiful day.”

They both beamed at me and nodded approval. I stopped in my bedroom for a moment, and then made my way outdoors.

To hear them talk now if was if they had always supported Tory’s decision to become one of the Eastfarthing shiriffs. He was always one for action, was my Tory, and if he didn’t get it, he’d go find it. In a restless bachelor, that was expected, but once we married, the routine began to wear on him. I asked Dahlia and Torric at least twenty or thirty times, “It’s not as if being a shirriff isn’t respectable!” All they could say back was that it was not appropriate for one of his station. It nearly made me smile to remember it. And in the way of things, when he finally went and did it anyway, the younger Brandybucks were completely in awe of him. 

My sweet Torinas reckoned his descent from Lilac, the sister of Gorbadoc Brandybuck. She married into the Chubbs. When she was widowed young, Gorbadoc was only too happy to have his sister and her grandchild (my husband’s father), back in Brandy Hall. Perhaps it’s because he was a Chubb originally, and only became a Brandybuck by adoption that Torric is so conscious of his place in the family. Dahlia, his wife, is of a minor Goodbody branch, but you would never guess that by her behavior. 

For Tory, the job was mostly a lot of walking and talking. He was never gone long, perhaps two weeks of each month total. And whenever he returned from his gadabouts (what I used to call them) it was as if we were newly married. He would come through the door of our rooms, and just look at me. Just a look, and I would nearly melt from the heat in it. He favored the Brandybuck side, being tall and slim, with dark brown eyes and very light chestnut hair. My little Tobas was so like his father, they could have been twins. Sometimes I would look at Toby and search in vain for some evidence that I had had a hand in his creation. 

I remembered the trip when Tory had returned with news of Mr. Frodo. I had been keeping a watch out, and I saw him talking to Mr. Saradoc and Torric. He always made sure to pass on whatever interesting news he had to the Master of the Hall. And from the way Torric always nodded and commented to Saradoc, you’d have thought this whole shiriff business had been his idea. I nipped back to our rooms quick as a wink, and packed Toby up to visit Granny. Opal was still sprightly at 94 and always happy to keep him for a bit. Although she shared rooms with Torric and Dahlia, it was generally Opal in charge when I took Toby over. I had the feeling twice-married Opal knew exactly why I always brought Toby to her on the days Tory returned. 

I shook off the memories and opened the back door of the Hall, and the bright sunlight speared into my skull. I stopped under a tree, grimacing a little. August was always such a warm month. I could hear voices coming from some of the open windows. 

“….thirteen you said, or was it fourteen?” I recognized the clear voice of the heir of Brandy Hall. He was up early. 

“Neither, wooly-head. Sixteen barrels of the gold ale and I don’t know how many of the brown.”

“Perhaps we should check the quality.” Chuckles and jests followed me down the little path. 

My darling Tory knew I watched for him and sometimes would play at trying to sneak in unobserved. He never tried very hard, though. He enjoyed our reunions as much as I. That particular day I had decided to tease him good and proper for he’d been gone nearly three days longer than I expected. When he opened the door, I was settled on the floor with the big washtub full of sudsy water, wearing an old, threadbare skirt and shirt with no apron. It was a warm summer day, so I’d left the top few buttons undone while I scrubbed the clothes in the tub energetically. 

He was smiling broadly. “Hullo, Tansy, I’m back,” he’d said as he always did. 

I had barely glanced up at him. “Torinas, darling, welcome home.”

He had hesitated then. Had he genuinely surprised me this time? He had sat down on one of the chairs and watched me. I had accidentally splashed some water down my front, so I was a bit damp. And when white linen gets wet…. After a bit, he cleared his throat and addressed me again. “Got some interesting news on this trip, Tansy.”

I lifted one of Toby’s shirts from the tub and pretended to frown at it. “Mmmm-hmmm?”

“Frodo Baggins, that used to live here as a boy, has decided to move back. He’s selling his house in Hobbiton and Merry is helping him look for a hole or house here in Buckland. Merry’s been quite close about the whole affair.”

“Really? How interesting.” I had hardly a thought to spare for Frodo or Merry. I stood up and climbed into the tub and lifted my skirt, stomping hard.  
Tory gaped at me. “What are you doing?” 

“These clothes are so dirty, I thought I’d try the vineyards way of cleaning them.”  
The smile spread back over his face, and he jumped up and snatched me into his arms. And then the washtub got tipped over. .

 

When that business with Lotho Sackville-Baggins calling himself the “Chief Shirriff” started, Tory and Mr. Saradoc paid no mind at first. Away in Westfarthing, Lotho could call himself the King of the Eagles if he liked and it would make no difference to Buckland. And, we’d learned to tolerate odd behavior from Hobbiton folk. Tory continued walking and talking, though, and pretty soon he heard about old Will Whitfoot getting locked up. He hotfooted it back to Brandy Hall four days early that trip, and spent a long time closeted with his father and Mr. Saradoc. 

The next day, Bucklanders started bringing in supplies to be cached in the cellars of Brandy Hall. It wasn’t long after when the first Man showed up at our gates, demanding to talk to the “head man of the little folk”. Mr. Saradoc met him cordially enough, listened to the rules and showed him around all the storerooms. When the carts came, we Bucklanders even helped load them with our ‘shared’ portion of supplies. Of course, I had it straight from Tory that Mr. Saradoc had only revealed about a tenth of what was actually present in Brandy Hall at the time. The carts had barely cleared the gates before Mr. Saradoc had sent Tory off to Tuckborough with messages for the Thain.

Those were difficult days. Half the people of Buckland and the Marish were camped out in or around Brandy Hall, and no one knew whom to trust. I was sick with fear that Tory would be thrown into the Lockholes. Little Toby was just starting to talk and whenever he asked for his daddy, my stomach would clench. 

Tory kept telling me not to worry and it seemed all right for a time. And the few times the Shirriffs were ordered to arrest a Bucklander, they had a terrible time finding the person. It always seemed that the person had left just that morning for a long visit to relatives in some other Farthing. Then the one called Sharkey came, and Mr. Saradoc gave up even the appearance of co-operation and locked Brandy Hall up tight. I had been so relieved to have no more pretense of ‘shirriffing’.

I came to the little decorative gate and pushed it open. It creaked. “I should bring some oil and fix that,” I thought as I always did. No one else came here often enough to see to it. I left the gate standing open, and hesitated a long moment, staring out over the fenced space. I’d gathered some daisies and wood-roses on the way and I bunched them up in my hands. 

I walked along the rows until I came to the stone I sought. I knelt down and traced the lettering with my fingers. _Torinas Brandybuck, 1383-1419, fallen in the Battle of Bywater_ And below in smaller letters: _beloved son, husband, and father_

My fingers felt as cold as the stone they touched. As chill as Tory had been when they’d brought him back to me, barely clinging to life.

It was November 7th. I’d known he was injured and that it was very serious but when I saw him, I felt my knees weaken and the room spin. I barely recognized him. The bloodstained bandage wrapped around his head couldn’t account for all the changes, could it? His skin was pale, his limbs stiff. His breathing was harsh and slow. Dahlia helped me wash him and lay him in our bed. His lips were a strange dark color, as if he’d been eating blueberries. I asked Dahlia about it, and she wouldn’t meet my eyes. Then I asked her about the healer, and she started crying and turned away. And then I knew. Merry had sent him home to die. 

I couldn’t bear to let Toby see him. I sat by Tory and I talked to him all that night. Even when my voice trembled and shook, I talked to him. I held his cool hand, I kissed his lips, and I bathed his brow. I told him I loved him. I talked about how we would laugh about this someday, when I was dandling our grandchildren on my knee. And finally, just before dawn, he took a harsh breath…and just stopped. He did not take another. I combed his hair back with shaking hands, and crawled under the bedcovers to snuggle next to him. Dahlia and Torric came to me then, and managed the rest. I could never remember much of the rest of that day. Tory, dead? It was ridiculous. We should have had another 60 years together. Dead? 

It was the Travelers who had started the whole mess. The news that Mr. Merry, Mr. Pippin, Mr. Frodo and Samwise Gamgee had returned to the Shire and been promptly arrested set Brandy Hall afire. Tory and thirty other young men set off immediately to either rescue them or join them. Then came the Battle of Bywater on November third, and my sweet Torinas was struck on the head by a barbed club and never woke up again. 

I stood through the memoriam numbly clutching Toby. How could I have ever wished he looked more like me? I was grateful for the small glimpses of Tory I got when Toby smiled or moved his head a certain way. 

When Merry knocked on my door afterwards, I stared at him for a long moment before I could bring myself to invite him in. Dahlia would have been mortified at my behavior. He sat down, and talked for a while about how brave Tory had been. I watched my hands clenching in my lap, wondering why that was supposed to comfort me.

 _I wish he’d been a coward,_ I thought. _I would that he’d left you to your own devices. You didn’t need his help, you and the others._

Then he said, “Tansy, I want you to know that Brandy Hall is your home. I know you have family to go to, but I want you and Toby to stay.” I had just looked at him. My mother had died 5 years ago, and I wasn’t that close to my father. 

He shifted under my look and finally added, “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to have Toby be the Westfarthing shirriff someday.”

“He will be sensible,” I answered coldly. “No adventuring. Why? So he can die young as well?”

He nodded and dropped his gaze. “Tansy, I’m sorry.” I said nothing and he got up and left the room. 

Outwardly, Brandy Hall was soon back to normal. Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin ran about mopping up ruffians, and showing them to the borders. Saradoc and Esmeralda were over the moon to have Mr. Merry back from the dead. And I heard that Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had given Bag End back to Mr. Frodo. Everything worked out fine for them. 

As for me, I had no choice but to cope as well as I could. I had Toby to look after. Each morning, he woke me with his sweet prattling, and each night, I tucked him into my bed. Dahlia never missed a chance to tell me I was spoiling the boy rotten, but I paid her no heed at all. He would grow up soon enough. Already he was pushing me away when I tried to help him dress and eat. “I do it, Mama,” was all I heard from morning to night. But he would still let me cuddle him in my rocker at bedtime. His small form fresh-washed and relaxed, he would sprawl across my lap while I read fairy tales to him. 

Toby was our only child. It’s rubbish what some have whispered, that we didn’t get along in that way, and that is why Tory felt the need to go on his gadabouts. I was brought to bed of Toby in September 1416, when Tory and I had been married just a year and 2 months. It’s true I worried a bit when another babe didn’t come after him, but then, we were young. We had more than enough time for all the babes we would want. And for all the heat in our bed, it was still cold for the fortnight each month when Tory was away. 

One day I missed Toby while I was kneading some bread. Lost for a bit in the rhythmic motions and the feel of the silky dough under my hands, I suddenly felt it was too quiet. I called out, “Toby?” and was rewarded with an answering mumble from the bedroom. Wiping my hands, I had hurried in and found him sitting in a pile of Tory’s clothes. He had pulled them out of the cedar chest. I had removed them from our wardrobe but could not bring myself to get rid of them. He looked up at me, smiling. 

“Daddy’s shirts!” he said excitedly. And then, “Where Daddy?” 

My throat closed. My grief reared up like wayward pony, dragging me along with it. That day our bread was seasoned with tears.

The evening of April 29th, I was rocking Toby when I heard a tap at our door. “Come in,” I called. Opal’s bright eyes in her wrinkled face peered down at me.

“So what are you going to wear, then?” she asked with a twinkle.

“Wear to what?” I responded, though I guessed what she referred to.

“Why, to the May Day feast, child! Now, I have a yellow dress that would be very becoming on you.”

“I won’t be going to the feast, Opal,” I replied. 

She looked unsurprised at this announcement. “I see. You won’t be taking Toby to see the men kindle the fire and leap it for luck? You won’t help gather the first flowers? You’ll just sit in here and brood, and keep Toby with you? Of course, he wouldn’t want to go.”

I hesitated for a moment. “Now I think on it, perhaps Toby should go, at least for the supper. He can go with you.”

“Girl, go on with you! I’m too old to run about after a 3 yearling. Why, he’ll leave me in the dust or give me an attack of the heart-pain.”

I looked at her skeptically. “That’s not what you say when I bring Toby to you for visits.”

“Well, in my rooms, he’s constrained-like. He can’t go all about and everywhere.”

“Perhaps he could go with Dahlia and Torric then….” My voice trailed off, as Opal looked vastly amused. 

“Yes, go ask your mother-in-law to put aside her own enjoyment to watch her grand-baby so you can sit and sulk.”

I frowned at her, but didn’t reply. She twinkled at me again. “Shall I bring the yellow dress around tomorrow, then?” 

“Yes,” I muttered with ill grace.

At the feast the next night, I enjoyed myself far more than I had imagined. . There were athletic contests, displays of skill in weaving and other crafts, and dancing after supper. Toby had to learn how to spit, since I had neglected to teach him this important skill. Everyone applauded when Merry led the men of the Hall in leaping over the kindled bonfire to bring luck. When the dancing started, I was surprised to find myself asked several times. The traditional dances were brisk and energetic enough that I did not feel out place. At the close of one dance with Merimas, I looked over and saw Toby running about with a huge chunk of seed cake. Esmeralda was at another table, ladling out bowls of jam and cream for the youngsters. I hesitated, and then excused myself. Seed cake often seemed to upset Toby’s stomach, and that large a portion was sure to do so. I was waylaid by Merry as I walked by him. 

“Tansy, I’m glad you came,” he said, jumping up.

“Yes, thank you, Merry,” I said hesitantly. I felt a little awkward, remembering how originally I’d blamed him for Tory’s death. I looked over his arm to where Toby was crowded in with the other children, inhaling cakes and sweets and what not. Opal and Esmeralda stood watching over them, smiling indulgently.

“At least one of my favorite cousins attended,” he went on. I caught Opal’s eye, and pointed to Toby and to my stomach. She shrugged, but then gently picked Toby up, distracting him with a cornhusk doll. Merry followed my gaze and frowned at me in mock reproach. It wasn’t the nature of hobbits to be so over-protective of their children, and I knew I probably seemed foolish. 

“So what ‘favorite’ cousin did not attend?” I asked Merry quickly, wishing to distract him from teasing me. “It looks like everyone in the Hall is here to me.”

“Frodo Baggins,” Merry replied. “He is being most un-sociable lately.”

I shrugged. “Wasn’t he always that way?”

“You have the better of me, there.” Merry's looked troubled despite his perpetual grin.

“He threw my brother out of Bag End, once.” 

He started. “You mean Sancho? When?”

I had to laugh at the look on his face. “Well, Sancho was trying to dig up Bilbo’s pantry, as I understand it.”

Merry’s face cleared. “Of course, after the famous Party! Oddly enough, I don’t remember that you attended.”

“I was there. I was in my teens, but so homely, I spent the whole time desperately avoiding everyone I knew.” 

“Who could have foretold you would flower so beautifully?” he declaimed loudly. The remark fell into one of those little silences, and it seemed everyone in Brandy Hall turned to look at us. I tried to suppress a smile, glad to be there and glad to be joking with him again. 

“Merry Brandybuck, you are a scoundrel,” I scolded. He looked pleased with himself, and taking my hand, led me to the dance floor.

~to be continued~


	2. When We Might Meet

I straightened away from Tory’s stone at last, and wiped my eyes. When I woke up that morning, I had realized with a shock that Tory had been gone for over eight months. It felt like a lifetime. The pressure in my chest began building relentlessly. I did not want to look at the small stone to my right. I could just see the stars and clouds incised on it out of the corner of my eye.

My vision began to blur and I stared off for a moment, gathering myself. When I blinked, a green and white shape suddenly coalesced into that of a solitary figure standing at the edge of the cemetery. He was looking down steadily at the graves before him. How long had he been there? I felt a surge of anger at the interruption. I’d never seen anyone else here before. After all, it was not the way of hobbits to moon around over the dead all day.

I couldn’t bring myself to turn with him standing there. I took a deep breath and waited. After several minutes, the silent figure still had not moved. Was he even breathing? I tried to remember who was buried over in that corner. It was fairly recent. A sibling of Old Rory’s who had died young? A sister? In a flash, I realized what had eluded me. It was Primula and Drogo Baggins who were buried there. So, most likely, the person standing there so quietly was….Frodo Baggins.

What are you doing here? I fumed inwardly. Why aren’t you back in Hobbiton where you can hide with your devoted servant to care for you? When the figure’s shoulders twitched, I realized with a shock that I had spoken aloud. He turned to peer at me over the graves, and I saw it was indeed Frodo.

“Are you addressing me?” His tone was quite cold.

“Not at all, I was mistaken,” I said hastily. “My apologies.” I bowed my head. Now he will surely go. Instead, I heard footsteps crunching toward me through the heat-seared grasses.  
Keeping my eyes determinedly on the ground, I saw a pair of feet come to a halt before me. They were dirty and scratched as if the owner had walked a long way since the day had begun. “True, I live in Hobbiton, and am lucky enough to have a devoted servant. But most are too polite to speak of it, especially when one is standing in a cemetery.”

Cursing under my breath, I raised my eyes. He was wearing fine green breeches and a plain white shirt with a russet vest. It took me a moment to grasp that the pallor in his face was not just the morning light washing the color from him. He seemed much thinner and I wondered about the aforementioned ‘difficulty settling’ he’d had. He looked back at me with the same puzzling recognition. I knew I had aged a thousand years from the happy lass he had once been acquainted with.

“Why, Tansy, it’s been so long….” His voice trailed off, as he took in where I sat. He flushed brick red, looking away. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Tansy,” he said quietly.

“It has been difficult, but it will get better,” I managed, in one of the time-honored Hobbit responses to sympathy. Today, the inane pleasantry struck me as so ridiculous I nearly started giggling.

“Will it?” he asked. I looked up at him, startled, even shocked at the question.

“Yes, I believe it will,” I stammered.

“Do you?” he asked, looking at me steadily. His eyes were a dull cloudy blue, not at all the gorgeous ocean-blue I had once heard silly young lasses giggling over. “Because sometimes I find myself doubting that things will get better. And fearing that they will get considerably worse.”

I could think of absolutely no polite response to make. I finally said, “I’m sorry but I don’t….”

“Yes, I know.” He started to turn away and then looked past me at the very stone I was trying to avoid seeing. “Unusual,” he said quietly.

“Beyond the circles of the world,” I said, biting my lip to keep my voice calm. I held up my hand to forestall comment and continued. “I know it’s an outlandish quotation that only proves that I am mad with grief.” I looked at him defiantly, wondering if this would cause him to make his excuses and shuffle off.

He seemed to read my look. “I like it, actually. And many thought Bilbo was quite mad, but I always found his company perfectly agreeable.” He gestured to the ground. “May I?”

I shrugged, and he dropped gracefully down next to me. I was congratulating myself on my composure when the rest of the stone’s lettering finally leaped into my vision.

_Tobas Brandybuck, 1416-1420, beloved child_

I turned away from Frodo and confronted the stone. The words were still there. And Toby was still dead.

“It seemed like a stomach-ache,” I said, hardly aware I was speaking.

“Did it?”

“Yes, just a stomach-ache after the May Day feast. How absurd is that? I thought I’d seen the worst when my mother died or Tory, but Toby… “ I felt a movement next to me and realized that Frodo was holding out his handkerchief. I took it silently and wiped my eyes. I glanced over at him. He was sitting quietly, seeming very self-contained and peaceful. A little breeze swept across us just then, and blew his hair back away from his face. I was suddenly frozen, remembering.

It was one of those long lazy days following the day Tory returned from a gadabout. We nearly always spent that time lounging about, re-acquainting ourselves with each other and with Toby. Sometimes we would paddle, or even take out one of the small boats of the Brandybucks. Tory had taught me how to handle myself in the water, but I still was not as comfortable as he and Toby were. That day, Toby had made a beeline for the water, and Tory had followed him and kept his toddling feet steady. It was early and already Toby was turning brown. There was a sudden gust of wind, and Tory had squinted off into the distance, and then pointed. I turned and looked back, seeing the thunderheads building up in the East.. So much for paddling that day. Tory had lifted Toby up on his shoulder, and the freshening wind blew in their faces, flattening their hair back and revealing the similarities in their facial structure.

I had stood on the bank, watching them walk toward me, feeling as if I could never be any happier than I was at that small moment in time. I could see them now, walking toward me, the wind blowing against them, but they didn’t seem to be getting any closer. They were receding, the wind was blowing them away from me, and Toby held his little arms out to me pleadingly. “Mama!”

I was sitting in a golden-lit cemetery, watching Frodo Baggins’ hair blow back away from his face. I looked at him, and saw the beauty in the bones and lines of his face. Even pale and thin, he was as gorgeous as an angel. Why had he come here? I closed my eyes, trying to master myself. Why had he returned? I wanted to pound that beautiful skull into the stone before me. I hated him. Tory had left me to rescue him and for what? So that he could live in peace in his beautiful hole. What right had he to live and be so beautiful when my Tory and Toby were in the cold ground?

I opened my eyes to find him watching me. He looked as if he felt he should say something but was unsure of what to say. I was so very familiar with that look. He opened his mouth, but I spoke first, with a malicious edge. “So, Frodo, tell me about your travels. Were you attacked? How many people did you kill?”

He flinched visibly, and looked away hastily. I felt a twinge of conscience but ignored it. Maybe now he will leave me in peace. A little silence fell between us. Then he cleared his throat and said slowly, almost tonelessly: “I was at the Battle of Bywater, Tansy. Shall I tell you all about it?”

It was my turn to flinch, and look away. I clenched my hands into fists, feeling a mixture of remorse, anger, and recognition. I had no right to taunt him so. He began to shift onto his knees, preparing to get up and I couldn’t bear to have him leave thinking so ill of me. I put a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know what came over me to say something so unkind. Please don’t leave.”

He hesitated a moment, then sat down again. “I understand,” he said reluctantly. “I know only too well what can come over one.” His face tightened for an instant, as if he were near tears, then eased.  

“Few will refer to my travels to my face, you know,” he said, thoughtfully.

“I’ve heard a few whispers here and there.”  

He looked startled.  “What do they say?  I wouldn’t think anyone would be interested, truly. ”

“Perhaps not the men, but women are always interested when someone comes to a bad end.  Especially one so well-favored to begin with.”

He looked astonished, and I hesitated.  I was being rudely frank.  Dahlia would be most displeased with me if she heard of this conversation.

“Bad end?  Well-favored?” he repeated. Really.  How like a man to assume that his own experience is universal.  I mentally shrugged with a silent apology to Dahlia.

“The handsomest and richest bachelor in Hobbiton could not be considered anything other than well-favored,” I answered impatiently.  “And if he foolishly runs off on some adventure and comes home ill and melancholic, most hobbits would think that a bad end.”

He stared at me with a curious mix of emotions on his face.  He looked down and closed his eyes and his shoulders began to shake.  Alarm ran through me—I hadn’t meant to drive him to tears!  I patted his shoulder cautiously.  He threw his head back and a peal of laughter echoed around the cemetery.  I pulled my hand back, as he got himself under control. 

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “I’m not laughing at you.  To think what hobbits consider a ‘bad end’, it quite overcame me.”

I was unused to being laughed at.  “I see.” My curiosity prompted me to ask,  “So tell me of your experiences, that hobbit conventions amuse you so?”

The smile died on his lips and he looked rather shocked.  “I don’t believe that you would truly like to know the answer to that, Tansy.”

I shrugged another rude gesture that Dahlia would dislike.  “Tory died fighting ruffians to save the Shire.  My child died of an illness,” my voice shook for a moment, then steadied.  “I am entirely unsuited for happy tales; they no longer bring satisfaction or diversion.  So please tell me about the Wars, away East.” 

I blinked back stubborn tears and focused on Frodo with a silent apology to Tory and Toby.  Their end had come, not a bad one, just an sad one.  What they had given to me could never be bad.  I left unsaid my desire to join them, and sooner rather than later. That was not to be even breathed to another hobbit, or I would find myself the subject of much unwelcome attention. 

Frodo looked deep in thought, staring off into the distance.  And with something of a start, I remembered my plans for the day.  _What are you doing, Tansy?_ I thought in some frustration.  _I thought you were trying to get rid of Mr. Baggins, not prise his life story out of him!_   Truly, I was playing with fire.  The Baggins family was notoriously long-winded.  I shifted to get up and he looked over at me. 

“I thought you wanted to hear about my travels.” His voice was clear and calm, but a bit thin, as a skim of ice atop a puddle.

“I began to think you wished to be alone,” I answered.

“Not at all, I merely needed to marshal my thoughts.”  I looked closely at his face, and saw nothing amiss.  I could not leave now without impressing him with my own oddity, to be sure.  And hobbits acting that odd generally got marched off to concerned relations and given tonics.  I would play for time, and hope to be excused…say, at elevenses?  I sighed.  Perhaps I could escape him at lunchtime.

Without further ado, he launched into an account of Bilbo’s final party.  I was amused to note that he apparently assumed I was too young to have attended. 

“And next day, I had charge of the various small legacies Bilbo had left behind.  It was vexing because there was more than a few who seemed to think the entire household was being given away.  Some young hobbits seemed to think they would be able to dig up Bilbo’s legendary gold,” He paused and laughed.  “In fact, your brother Sancho was one.”

“Yes, he told us he had been thrown out.  Grandfather was exceedingly annoyed. I pointed out that good guests usually do not begin excavations in unused rooms, and Father boxed his ears.  He’d left that part out.”

Frodo looked at me in surprise.  “You speak as if you were there, but I don’t remember you.”

“Well, I was seventeen and rather insecure so I avoided everyone I knew.  Bilbo left Grandfather a book.  He was more outraged by that than by your treatment of Sancho.”

Frodo chuckled.  “I think I remember which book, too. Wasn’t it a copy of some of Bilbo’s translations?”

“Yes, and the tag said, _For Odo Proudfoot, for his instruction_.  Grandfather almost burned it.  ‘Foreign trash!’ he said.  ‘A respectable hobbit needs naught of that sort!’ “  I had to smile, thinking back to the scene.  I had rescued the little book, planning to annoy Grandfather with it later.  

Frodo went on with his tale.  “After Lobelia and Otho had left, Gandalf came ‘round and said he was off to do some research, concerning part of my inheritance.  He advised me to keep this a secret and said he would visit when able.”  He glanced at me sideways for a moment. 

I leaned forward interestedly.  “Part of your inheritance?  I’ve never heard that before.  What was it?  Something Bilbo had got on his travels?”

Frodo was quiet for a moment, and then asked me, “Was your marriage arranged, Tansy, or was it a love-match?”

I was startled by the change of subject, and then I realized why he’d done it.  He’d come to some difficult part of his story, and was having second thoughts about confiding in some gossipy third-cousin once removed he barely knew.  This was the perfect opportunity for me to take offense and storm off.  And yet, I hesitated.  I reasoned to myself that having a row with Frodo Baggins was hardly the way to stay inconspicuous.

“The best of both, actually,” I eventually answered.  “A love-match that we convinced our elders to arrange for us.  Tory was a friend of Sancho’s and we were always fond of each other.  I knew how I felt quite early.  And when the time came to choose me a husband, my grandfather was more than ready to consider him.”  Even nine months after his death, it was still difficult to speak of my Tory at times. I took refuge in a line of poetry that our conversation had brought to mind. _“The Sundering Seas between them lay, and yet at last they met once more, and long ago they passed away, in the forest singing sorrowless.”_

“How do you know that bit of poetry?” Frodo’s brows were drawn together in consternation.

“It’s out of that book of Bilbo’s, of course,” I said, wondering at his question.  Surely he knew it himself?

“You read it?”

“Yes, at that age, I thought anything that annoyed Grandfather must be keen.  The poetry was beautiful, if sad,” I replied, vexed at his obvious surprise.  “I still have it, in fact. I understand it a bit better now.”   He was still apparently speechless at the wonder of a woman reading.  “Speaking of Bilbo,  is he…is he still well?”

He smiled, affection in his eyes.  “Yes, and next year will pass the old Took in age.  He is at the Elven refuge of Rivendell.  Soon to pass over sea.”  

I looked at him in wonder.  “Into the West?”  Songs and stories…

He nodded, looking sad.  After a moment, he cleared his throat.  “I guess I should continue on with my story?  The item Bilbo had left me was a magic golden ring. As you guessed, he had come upon it in his adventures.”

I listened quietly, considering his reaction.  I was amused at the irony.  I had earlier worried about Frodo thinking me odd.  But it seemed if he judged me by his own standards, I would have to act oddly indeed to make any impression on him.  As he recounted Gandalf’s final test and revelations to me, it seemed more than ever like a fairy-story, told for amusement while we two sat in the heat of the August day.  A long story.  I was finding that reports of Baggins loquacity were quite understated.

He wound his tale through the Shire, to Buckland, and through the Old Forest.  Most of this was not new to me and I fought a feeling of drowsiness.  The Travellers’ journey had been extensively discussed in the upheaval following their disappearance.  Tory had told me of Shire folk seeing strange Big Folk dressed in black, and riding black horses. While none would consider spending the night in the Old Forest, Bucklanders did go into it occasionally. It seemed a certain age was reached which nothing would settle but to brave the Forest for a time, and then brag of it later.  Tory had taken me in once, and we had stayed right close to the gate.  Though he had whispered of the menace in the air, I sensed nothing.  I hadn’t seen any trees moving of their own accord, either. 

When Frodo described Tom and their rescue, however, I was genuinely astounded.  “You mean this being lives in the Old Forest, right on the borders of the Shire?” I interrupted. “And it’s not an elf or a troll…or an orc?”

“I can only repeat his description of himself.  He called himself Eldest. He is none of those things.  When I finish, you will see what a puzzle he is.  He lives there still, Gandalf visited him on our journey home.”

I took his polite hint, and settled back to let him finish.  He had a wonderfully pleasant voice, and an even, well-modulated style of speaking.  When he spoke of the lady Goldberry, he stammered a bit for the first time since beginning to speak. 

I grinned.  ” Why, Frodo, it sounds as if you quite admired this lady!”

“She was very beautiful,” he admitted.  “I saw beautiful ladies in my time away, but she was more.  She emanated kindness and warmth, like a fire in the hearth…” He saw the look on my face, and blushed brightly.  “But she plays little role in this story.  After we left Tom, we strayed into the Barrow-downs and were nearly killed by a wight.”

When he finished telling of the encounter with the wight and their entry into Bree, we heard the lunch-bell ringing.  I was startled.  I had not even noticed that elevenses had passed. “My, luncheon already and only to Bree!” I exclaimed.

He shrugged. “I hope I have not bored you too greatly.  And that you don’t think too badly of me now.”

“Think badly?” I repeated, surprised.  “Why would I?”

“With the wight, I felt like I wanted to disappear. …and leave my friends behind.”

I didn’t want to diminish his trust by giving him an easy reassurance.  I said slowly, “I don’t believe courage or cowardice lies in the content of one’s thoughts, Frodo.  Anyone in such a position would wish for an easier way.  But wishes are only wishes, and in the end, one’s actions and choices are what we must judge by.”

“Yes, I agree with that,” he said.  His voice sounded bitter and sad.  But when he raised his face up to me, it was calm.  “I will walk you back, Tansy,” he went on, “It’s the least I can do.  You were an excellent audience.”

When he stood up and offered me his hand, I noticed the missing finger.  I glanced up at him, and his face was closed and empty.  Did he expect me to shrink back from him, or stare, or ask how on earth he’d done it?  I smiled, and said  “Thank you” and took his hand.  I clasped it firmly, sliding my fingers around his.  I pulled myself up with a tug that rocked him on his feet before he steadied and completed the motion with a surprising strength.  The tightness in his face relaxed, and he gave me a brilliant smile.  I was taken aback at the force of the Baggins charm on full. An answering smile curved across my face, and chatting of minor matters, we returned to the Hall.

~tbc~


	3. Sad and Sweet

Dahlia was pacing back and forth impatiently when I opened the door.  “I didn’t think you would be so long, Tansy,” she began reproachfully.  She stopped abruptly when Frodo followed me into the room. 

“Your daughter was kind enough to chat with me this morning, Mrs. Brandybuck, and I selfishly made her late to lunch,” he said politely.

“Why, how nice to see you, Mr. Baggins,” Dahlia exclaimed.  “Won’t you have some luncheon with us?”

“I would enjoy it, Mrs. Brandybuck, but Merry is expecting me.” He nodded and smiled pleasantly to us both, and left.

Dahlia looked at me speculatively for a long moment, but said nothing.  I was glad.  I suddenly didn’t want to try and explain anything to her. The rest of that day passed quietly enough.  I busied myself with some stitching, and Dahlia announced she had some visiting to do and would see me at supper.  Opal wanted all the details of my chat with Mr. Baggins, but I said that we had discussed only common matters, such as the weather and the harvest.  I felt not a twinge at the dishonesty.  I felt rather protective of the things he had told me.  I was sure he would not wish them bandied about as common gossip.  I found myself wondering more than once where the story went from Bree.

After supper, someone tapped on my door.  Opal was up like a flash and had the door open before I could say a word.  Merry entered.  He said something quietly to Opal, and she chuckled and went out.  He came over and sat in the big chair next to my rocker. 

“Hullo, Merry, how are you?”  The evenings were always difficult.  It was so quiet.

“Is it all right that I told Opal I wished to speak with you privately?” he said grinning. “And at great length, well into the night?”

“Oh, Merry…”   I didn’t have the energy to yell at him.  He knew full well that I’d be teased with gossip on the morrow.

He turned serious, and took my hand.   “Tansy, I wanted to thank you for spending time with Frodo today.  He was much more cheerful at lunch.”

“Oh, you needn’t thank me, anyone would do the same,” I answered distractedly. 

“Actually, few would,” he replied.

I was taken aback.  “Excuse me?”

“Tansy, you haven’t heard?   Frodo had…a difficult time, and it may be a while before he is properly himself again.  I hoped a visit would cheer him up.  But then, everyone sees him acting so dreary…   Do you see the problem?”   I did, only too well.  Hobbits dislike gloom and doubly dislike those who show it.  Their favorite proverbs are about moving on and cheering up, doing one’s best despite everything, about how good hard work mends all ills.  Even their best-intentioned responses could hurt like acid, as I had some experience to know.

“I have a favor to ask of you during Frodo’s visit,” he went on.  “I wonder if you would be so good as to spend some time with him each day.  I wish him less time to brood.”

I shook my head in annoyance.  Merry’s plan seemed to be to let the mad resident of Brandy Hall entertain the mad visitor from Bag End.  Despite my reluctance, he chivvied me until I agreed.  As he left he warned me to say nothing to Frodo, for fear of angering him.  _More likely, you don’t wish any to know what a softhearted meddling goodwife you are, Merry._

Afterwards, I sat in my rocker and read over the little book of poetry by B. Baggins.  The room was so dreadfully quiet.  I could hear every breath I took.  Only recently had Opal and Dahlia decided I was fit to take care of myself at night.  It had never been quiet before, even when everyone was asleep.  A husband and child make such a noise and take up so much space.  I dropped the little book and climbed into bed, clutching Tory’s shirt and Toby’s blanket.

“Just a little stomach-ache,” I’d told Frodo.  Just a small complaint.   Such a simple thing to have destroyed my life. I picked up a little perfume bottle from under my washstand.  I allowed a single drop to fall from the wand onto my tongue, suppressing a grimace at the bitter, stinging taste. 

As I expected, Toby refused breakfast the day after the May-Eve feast. 

He slept longer than usual for his nap that afternoon, and seemed listless and out of sorts when he woke.  He was playing in the bedroom, when I heard him crying. 

“What is it, Toby?” I asked, hurrying in and picking him up.  “Did you fall down, sweetling?”  I noted uneasily how warm his little body felt.

“Tummy hurts, Mama,” he sobbed.  “Hurts.”

The pit of my stomach turned to ice.  Without another thought, I fled to Opal and Dahlia.  When I burst into their rooms, they were startled and alarmed.  But after hearing his symptoms and examining him closely, Opal smiled with relief.  “Just a stomach-ache, dear,” she said calmly. 

I saw the tenseness ease out of Torric’s face.  Toby was so like Tory, the old hobbit loved him dearly.  Dahlia smiled, too.  “After stuffing himself like a piglet last night, it’s no surprise.”  In a low tone to me, she said, “I imagine once the extra comes up one way or out the other, he’ll feel fine.”  I wrinkled my nose, and she laughed. 

“There’s no need to keep Torric up all night,” she added.  “Opal and I will come back with you to your rooms.  He’ll want sitting up with, I imagine.”

I had felt tears of gratitude sting my eyes.  “Thank you,” I’d told her.

 

We’d given Toby willow-tea, and his pain and fever seemed to ease.  He fell asleep as the May Day celebration went on, with singing and sometimes giggling in the hallways.  Opal, Dahlia and I had sat up chatting, checking on him as the night progressed.  I had dozed off when some sudden activity woke me.  I sat up and looked around.  The moon was down, making it quite late.  I walked into Toby’s room and gasped.  Opal and Dahlia had stripped his clothing and draped his little body with damp cloths.  His face was pale, and he was murmuring something, eyes closed.

They looked up at me, and I knew something was horribly wrong.  “What is it?” I cried.  I grabbed his little hand and knelt down next to him.  His hand was damp and fiercely hot.  I had never felt flesh so hot.  I swallowed down a wail of anguish.  “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“We were about to,” Opal said. 

“We’ve sent for the healer,” Dahlia added.

I brought my head down to his, and kissed his hot forehead.  Then I heard what he was murmuring.  “Mama, mama, mama…” My tears dripped on his face, and I began rinsing out cloths and laying them on him.  The heat of his body had already dried some of the cloths.  I saw his hands jerk slightly when I was bathing his arms.  Suddenly, wild tremors raced up both arms until his torso was jerking with the force of them.  His eyes flew open, and he gave a tiny cry, as if he had no strength.  The tremors stopped and he began crying miserably.  I gathered him up and looked at Opal and Dahlia in horror. 

“It’s a fever fit,” Opal said, quietly. 

“What- what do we do then?”   

Dahlia just looked at me.  “We need to put him in the bath.”

When the healer arrived, we had immersed him a bath of cold water, and managed to force some more tea down his throat.   Her face was solemn as she examined him.  As she ran her hands across his abdomen, he cried out in pain.  At last, she sat back with a sigh.  “Well?” I asked. 

“Keep on trying to bring his fever down,” she said.  “I think oil of fennel, perhaps dandelion will help.  I’ll get it from the stores and be right back.”

A few minutes after she left, Toby began to shiver.  “His fever’s breaking,” Opal said, gladly.  “Let’s get him out and dried off.”  When we had him tucked back into bed, his eyes opened again.  He reached out to me, and I cuddled him close.  “Tired, mama, so tired,” he muttered. 

“I know, it’s all right, sweetie,” I whispered.  “Rest, and mommy will rock you.”

When the healer returned, she was glad to see he was awake.  She slipped a teaspoon of fennel oil in his mouth quickly, and followed it with a decoctation of dandelion leaves.  “There, perhaps that will help,” she murmured. 

Her choice of words was not lost on me. “What is wrong with him?”

She hesitated. “I cannot say for sure.”  

“Then what do you think?”

She sighed again.  “As a cut or a wound can go bad, so can a person’s insides.  I don’t know why this happens, but I have seen it a few times.  There is pain and fever, and the belly gets hard and rigid. Sometimes the body will fight it off.”

“Sometimes?”

She looked at me sympathetically.  “And sometimes, the person will die of it.”

I felt the world spinning about me.  It could not be.  It simply could not be.  There was no way Toby could be dying. He stirred in his sleep, and I bent my head and inhaled his soft fragrance.  He still smelled like a baby.  It was not possible that he could be so sick.  And yet, within two hours, he had begun to heat again.

I clung to hope longer than anyone through the nightmare days that followed.  Whenever the fever subsided, we dosed him frantically with willow tea, dandelion, fennel, chamomile, sage, anything I or the healer had ever heard of to help with stomach problems.  I made sure he drank plenty of water so the fever wouldn’t dry his body out.  Despite everything, he weakened steadily.  As the healer had predicted, his belly grew rigid, and painful so that to even brush it made him cry out.  His fevers were so fierce that his little body jerked regularly in the fits.  The fevers sent him out of his head, and he would cry out and thrash around, calling for me, calling for Tory, for Granny and Gramps. Three days after that first night, when the fever subsided again, I took him in my arms. 

I stared long into his face, trying to burn it into my memory.  His once-rosy cheeks were pale and sunken.  His small body seemed wasted, too, and his belly was swollen.  _So much pain_ , I thought wearily, _Great ones, would you take my life and spare him? Please spare him._    Even as my mind formulated the thought, I knew it would not happen.  My baby was dying, and it was close at hand.  Torric stood over me, bright tears in his eyes, the lines of his age carved painfully in his face.  Dearest Opal had sat down ‘for just one moment’ and fallen asleep.  Dahlia sat next to me, holding one of Toby’s feet.  She held it cradled in one palm, and ran her fingers over it gently, caressingly.

“I love you, Toby,” I said softly.  “Mama loves you so much.”  His brown eyes opened.  This was a familiar ritual for us.

“Love my mama,” he said haltingly.

“This much,” I finished, opening my arms wide for a moment.  A smile trembled on his lips.  Then a spasm ran over his body, and he began to cry weakly. 

“Hurts, it hurts. Make it stop, Mama.”

The healer touched my shoulder.  “Give him this, Tansy,” she said.  She held a teaspoonful of some oil.  I looked at the bottle in her hand, labeled with a picture of a poppy.  Distillation of poppies.  It had no virtue except to ease pain.  It was powerful and dangerous, and rarely used.  Except in cases of last resort.

I eased it into his mouth, and cuddled him close again.  His small form was hot against me.  Despite the fever, the drug did its work and soon he relaxed into sleep.

I leaned back into the chair wearily.  I was so tired.  I felt as if I could sit here with him forever, if only I were permitted to.  I must’ve dosed off then, for the next thing I remember is his body beginning to cool.  Hope surged in my breast.  The fever was breaking again, perhaps this time for good. I sat up abruptly, and looked down into his face.  He was so relaxed, and very pale.  There was a subtle peace in his face that I’d not seen for days.  As I stared at him, I heard Opal wail.  Torric fell on his knees, and bowed his head.  I looked at them in confusion, and over at Dahlia.  The tears in her eyes spilled as she said, “He’s gone, Tansy.” 

I felt myself beginning to shake.  “No,” I told her.  “The fever’s come down again, maybe for good this time…. He can’t be dead.”  Dahlia looked old.  Normally, she took good care of herself, but today she looked very old.  She tried to take Toby out of my arms.  “What are you doing?”  I pulled away violently, and nearly knocked her to the floor. 

Opal stood up. “Tansy, dear, give Toby to us.  We’ll lay him out.” Her voice cracked on the last words.  How many had Opal had to lie out in her time? 

It seemed my heart knew better than my mind, or else why were tears running down my face?  “He’s not dead,” I repeated.  I looked down at him, and shifted him a bit. “Toby, wake up.  Wake up, sweetling, Granny wants to see you.”  His face was slack, the skin growing cooler by the minute. He was too cool.  I needed to warm him up.  I pulled him close until his face was snuggled into the curve of my neck. “Toby.  Toby! Toby!”  I heard myself screaming his name.  Opal’s face crumpled as she dissolved into sobs.  “He. Is. Not. Dead.  He’s not….” I could not go on.  I finally sank down to my knees and keened out my anguish, cradling my baby against me.

 

That hot August night in 1420, I turned over in bed restlessly, picturing the crowd at Toby’s memoriam.  I was still far too wide-awake.  I lifted the wand from the bottle and took a second drop.  This time, I didn’t even notice the taste.   I remembered that everyone in Brandy Hall turned out. 

I had stood next to Opal and Dahlia, while tears ran unchecked down my face.  Opal sniffed into a hankie, but Dahlia stood dry-eyed. When the moment came and we were expected to leave, my legs began to tremble.   I struggled not to throw myself to the ground and wail and tear my hair and generally make a spectacle of myself.  Dahlia’s iron-like grip on my elbow helped keep me upright.  We had walked partway back to the Hall before I balked. 

Dahlia looked at me blankly.  “Tansy, we must go back and make an appearance at the funeral supper.”

I choked at the thought of trying to eat just then.  “I will not- not- NOT go and make conversation,” I managed to say, almost pleadingly.  “I was his mother.  His mother.  Don’t you understand?” 

For a moment, Dahlia’s face began to crumple and I felt a rush of mean-spirited satisfaction.  She put her hands over her face, and took a deep breath.  Then she removed her hands, still dry-eyed, and said in a steady voice, “You set too much store on that child, Tansy.  You have a long life before you yet.  You will have other children.”

Opal tutted disapprovingly.  “This is not the time, ‘Lia,” she said.

I felt myself beginning to shake.  “I will not have any more children,” I told her.   “Fine, I will go and make an appearance.  But I will not pull myself together.  Not for you, or the Brandybuck name,” I spat angrily.  At the supper, I stood silent and separate.  The guests avoided eye contact and shuffled their feet uneasily.  I started when a felt a touch on my arm. 

It was Merry, looking at me sorrowfully.  “I will miss him, Tansy.  I’m so terribly sorry.”

I felt the tears starting up again, but he didn’t look away or flinch.  “Thank you.”   

He put one arm around me and hugged me to him.  “Is there anything I can do?” he asked softly.  

I shook my head, unable to speak.  For an instant, simply grateful for the touch of a warm hobbit hand.  It gave me the strength to retreat from that nightmarish supper and go to bed. I stayed there for three days.

In the month that followed, I was never alone.  Either Opal or Dahlia stayed with me, day and night, coaxing me to eat, nagging me to sleep.   I moved mostly in a daze.  I could not comprehend how quickly and easily my life had fallen apart.  A thousand times, I wished I’d stayed home from the feast, although the healer had told me over and over again that there was no way to tell what brought the illness on. Opal and Dahlia quietly packed his and Tory’s things up one morning while I was out for a walk.  They saved a single shirt of Tory’s, and Toby’s favorite shirt, poppet, and blanket. When I returned home, I cried and raged at them for that. They were implacable. 

“It does you no good to cling to the dead like this, Tansy,” Dahlia said, firmly.  “You need to move on with your life.”

“What life?” I sobbed, burying my face in Toby’s blanket.  “What life?”

Opal was ashen.  “I know, dear girl, I know,” she said.  “But you must force yourself to think past this moment, and this pain.”

I stood up, still holding the blanket. “I will not,” I screamed at her.  Then I ran to my bedroom and slammed the door.  The rest of the summer slipped by, golden days filled with swimming and berry picking.  After that first month, Opal and Dahlia began to leave me alone occasionally.  But I still had no enthusiasm for any activities, despite Opal’s continued pleas and Dahlia’s barely-restrained impatience. Merry came to my door once or twice, but I refused to see him or anyone else except Tory’s family.  If I met someone on my daily trek to the cemetery, I said little and hurried away.

I turned my head and looked at the bottle on the washstand.  The glass caught a stray gleam of moonlight and glittered.  _So beautiful…_ My thoughts were beginning to slide gently out of focus.   Now? In the midst of my grief, I had discovered a half-empty bottle of poppy syrup, beneath my bed in a tumble of dust and spider-webs. And Frodo Baggins came to visit...

I had just given Merry a promise that would delay my joining Tory and Toby beyond the circles of this world for at least a fortnight.  I was so alone.  Why had I promised him?  I was so alone and this bed was so cold.  I curled up on my side, tears rolling silently down my face.


	4. Not Pale, But Fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *warning for suicidal thoughts*

The next morning dawned cloudless and bright. Immediately after breakfast, I headed out to the cemetery. Despite taking not one but two drops of the syrup the night before, I felt fine, with no headache. I have such a good constitution, I thought in amusement. Why, I might live another 90 years! I laughed under my breath as I went through the small cemetery gate. Might, but I doubt it.

My plans might be delayed but they were by no means canceled. It had been months before I could spend my days thinking about anything other than my grief, being so low and lackluster. And then, after some of my energy returned, it was several more weeks of thought before I came to the conclusion that I was ready to end my life. I had finally sorted it just recently. I would arise and be cheerful and chatty with Opal and Dahlia and Torric. I would attend at least at one meal with the family and say that I was feeling so much better..but for a nagging headache. Oh dear! And then the next morning, I would be found in my bed. Syrup bottle carefully crushed and hidden, taken on an empty stomach to decrease the chances of nausea and finally, finally at peace. No one would be blamed or blame themselves; it would merely be a tragic mystery. 

Like the drowning deaths of Frodo’s parents. For all the whispers that she pushed him or he pulled her, no one truly knew what had happened or how their last minutes had gone. I was struck momentarily by the thought of Frodo as a little lad, mourning his parents and then moving from his home to the crowded environs of Brandy Hall. It must have been a shock. 

But that was not my situation. I wouldn’t be leaving anyone behind when I died, but looking forward to a joyous reunion. I pushed these grim thoughts aside and looked around. 

Even at this early hour, Frodo was standing as he had the previous day, before his parents’ graves. He did not stir as I sat down in my usual spot. _My darling, how are you? I’m helping Merry out with something. Remember Frodo Baggins? I’ve promised to help cheer him up for a bit. I wish you were here. You would be excellent company. How you’d set the company roaring when we’d go to dinner. I’m not nearly as good a conversationalist, but he is a Baggins, so if I just nod in the right places he should be happy._

I took a deep breath before turning to the other. It was always so much more difficult to address my little one. _Mommy loves you, Toby. I love you…so much_. I dug my fingers into the turf and tried to compose myself. _Not very cheery now, are you_? After what seemed an endless time, I wiped my eyes and looked over. Frodo was still there but he had sat down. I cleared my throat, and he looked up. 

“Hullo, Tansy,” he said quietly.

“I don’t mean to disturb you, Frodo, but would you care to tell me any more of your adventure? I’ve been wondering what happened after Bree.” I had decided that this would be the most logical reason for the daily visits I’d promised Merry. _It’s early, I’ll get this over with promptly_ , I thought, congratulating myself for not procrastinating.

He hesitated a long moment, staring off into the fields to the south. Then he stood and walked over. I noticed that today he was dressed more casually than yesterday, in green breeches with a lime shirt. Rather uncharitably, I thought that green did nothing for his looks; it made him appear sickly. As he sat down, he looked over at me and raised an eyebrow. “What is it?” 

I felt embarrassed that my thoughts had been visible on my face. “Nothing important. Just—wouldn’t a blue shirt be more pleasant than—“ 

He glanced down at his shirt and then back at me. “Really?” he said. “Why bother?"

For some reason, that struck me ill and I tried not to bristle. “No reason, especially," I replied tartly. "Except for the way that one makes you look like you’re about to be sick. But perhaps you are feeling ill? In which case…” Here I moved away from him, leaving some space between us.

He laughed, which brought some color to his cheeks. “I see! I promise I won’t be sick on you. Next time, I'll try to be wearing something that meets with your approval.”

“Well, it’s not for me to say how you should dress,” I cautioned hastily.

“It’s my pleasure,” he said firmly. “After all, Old Tom in the Forest wasn’t the talk of dinner.”

I took the point at once. I hadn’t gossiped about his story, contrary to expectations for most hobbit-wives. Not that he had outright said that any of his story was a secret. I was glad that I guessed properly.

“I thought it would be so, and I’m glad to be proved correct,” he finished. How like a man! I grumbled to myself. Never say clearly what they want and then take all the credit for being high-minded and noble when another’s actions turn out as they wish. 

“Once in Bree, we continued on to the Prancing Pony. I admit, I was unsure what course to take, and hoped to have some time for reflection. Unfortunately, we went into the common room before dinner and that proved a mistake.”

I settled back on my elbows and listened to a detailed description of the beer, the other patrons, the music and the innkeeper. And then… “You stood on a table and sang?”

He looked resigned. “It seemed to make sense at the time.”

After two or three half-pints, it no doubt made plenty of sense. I didn’t say so. Even odd Mr. Baggins would be insulted by that. “And I don’t believe I’ve heard the song you’re describing,” I exclaimed. “A cow that jumped over the moon? I wonder if I heard it if I would recognize it.”

He slanted a look at me. “I am not singing it.” 

He went on to talk about Strider, Barliman Butterbur and his forgotten errand. “He said he’d been given a description of Mr. Underhill and that I met it.”

“Indeed? What was this description?”

He glanced over suspiciously, but my face was perfectly composed. “Taller than some and fairer than most. With a bright eye and a cleft chin.” He flushed and finished: “A stout little fellow with red cheeks.”

I had to bite the inside of my cheek to maintain my sober expression. Truly, Frodo was thinner now. But even so, the mental image of previously-stout and drunken Frodo standing on a table, singing, was quite diverting.

He paused for a moment, chin lifted, to see if I had any comment. I kept quiet so he started on the night’s adventures: Merry’s encounter and the destruction of beds and the decoy. I was disquieted at the dark turn. 

“You must've been gladdened that Strider found you,” I ventured once.

“Yes, but… Have you been close to any of the Big Folk, Tansy?”

I started to laugh, and then realized he was serious. “No, certainly not.” I'd seen them once, peeking through a cracked door with Mentha and Meli as Sharkey's Men yelled at Saradoc. The dwarves at Bilbo's party didn't really count. Since the King's decree, Big Folk didn't travel through the Shire any more and even Bree felt farther than it once was. 

“Strider is an honorable man, a warrior, but gentle and wise and long-seeing, as well.” He looked around us and pointed. “The top of his head would just brush that old limb with the fork in it.” My eyes went from the branch to his face and back again. It was a strange and unsettling thought. I tried to imagine being surrounded by people like that, all around me, eating and drinking from their giant cups and sitting on tall chairs.... I would feel like a mouse among cats. 

Frodo was watching me. He half-smiled and said, “You see, then.” He continued on with leaving Bree, and their travels through the Wild. He mentioned Strider’s goal, a hill called Weathertop, and faltered. He went on in a calm voice about the preparations they had made for camp, and the poetry Strider had recited. I was looking at the branch again, this time trying to picture a warrior that size preparing for battle.  
“Then we felt something creeping down the slope.”

When I looked at him, he was staring ahead again, his mind far away. Minutes passed and I began to wonder if I should just leave quietly or say something. I touched his arm tentatively. “Frodo?” I asked.

He looked at me, and I was startled by the pain and anger in his eyes. “They came. I felt—an imperative to put on the Ring. And I yielded. Then I--I alone could see the Riders clearly. Their faces were white and haggard; they bore silver swords. Everything was confusion, but I remember crying out the name of Elbereth, and striking at his leg. In return, the Witch-king stabbed me in the shoulder.” 

He took a deep breath and continued. “Putting on the Ring was not an escape. It never was. It put me in their world, to their advantage. They withdrew, thinking that I was as good as theirs, that the wound would place my soul under their command.” 

I floundered, unsure of what to say. Blast it all, Merry, what have you gotten me into? I was chilled by his words and the flat tone he'd taken. “You mustn’t blame yourself.” 

He made a disbelieving sound. “If only I hadn’t put the Ring on,” he began. “That wound torments me to this day, even after Elrond's healing.” 

“It does?” 

He made no answer, but leaned his chin upon his knees and closed his eyes. I stared at him. He pressed his lips together firmly, and I realized with a sudden surge of pity that he was near tears. I hesitated a long moment, still wondering what to do. Finally, I picked up his hand, and stroked it lightly. 

“You did all that you could,” I said. 

He opened his eyes and looked at me. "Vague warnings and fireside tales from those around you," I went on. “Your companions, frozen with fear and then you tricked into putting It on. Still managing to strike—and escape. Could they have expected one stout hobbit to struggle so?”

He closed his eyes again, and two tears tracked down his cheeks. “How I wish that you were right.”

“Frodo, since you are alive and able to tell me this story, you must be ten times a hero.”

He made a small sound, like a bitter, half-choked laugh. “I don’t agree with you, but thank you for your kind words.”

He swiped his other arm roughly across his face and gave me a brief description of Rivendell—Imladris, he called it, the strange name tripping lightly off his tongue. He mentioned the Council of Elrond and paused, no doubt thinking as I did, that it was high time for lunch. My stomach rumbled and I realized that I was still holding his hand, his fingers curled about mine. I loosened his grip as inconspicuously as possible, feeling oddly embarrassed.

“I’m sorry to make you relive such ill memories, Frodo. A meal would probably do you good, and it must be time for lunch now.” I was somewhat surprised that no one had come looking for us. 

“Yes. Perhaps in a little while. Good day, Tansy.” 

He didn’t move as I got up. I hesitated. “Aren’t you going to walk me back, then?”

“Do you want me to?” he asked vaguely.

I held out my hand to him. “Yes.” After all, I reasoned to myself, as we walked away, I’m sure Merry would not want me to leave him sitting alone in a cemetery. He left me at my doorstep and I went in, lost in thought. Opal had left a tray on the table, with a cold luncheon. I ate a little and settled down with my knitting. I enjoyed it. The clack of the needles was soothing, and lulled me into a pleasantly blank state-of-mind—even without the use of ..other substances. 

Tilly tapped on my door that afternoon. She had been a friendly acquaintance when Tory was alive, but was rather gossipy and meddling. She’d never taken an interest in me before now, and I wondered with some irritation what had changed. 

She didn’t beat around the bush. After I served tea, she leaned forward. “Tansy, what is going on with Frodo?” 

“Excuse me?” I was startled. It was unusual for anyone to question or even notice my activities.

“Well, twice now, someone said you talked to him in the cemetery all morning. Is that true? Tell me, is he as odd now as they say? And I hear he’s lost his looks.”

Her pretense of concern put my back up. “Why are you asking me when you see him at every meal? Ask him yourself.” I left her question unanswered to give myself a space for thought, but her next words took me by surprise.

“Huh! I used to be friendly with Frodo Baggins. He was quite an eligible bachelor once, despite Bilbo’s oddness. But I shouldn't think that I know him at all now.” 

Merry’s concerns took a more serious cast. Tilly was a brainless busybody but if she and her ilk were snubbing Frodo then no wonder he was hanging about the cemetery all day. “Then that is your loss, dear. He is quite charming and pleasant, and not odd at all,” I said coldly. 

Her eyes lit up and she smiled, like a cat sighting a particularly plump pigeon. And, too late, I realized my mistake.

“So you _have_ been talking to him! How interesting. Whatever do you talk about? And why in the cemetery? For a desire of privacy or of gloom?” she asked lightly. 

There were no right answers to any of those questions, just ones that would lead to rather more or less gossip. I allowed myself the luxury of thinking several very uncomplimentary terms at her. Walking all over the Shire had increased Tory’s knowledge of curse words.

“We were simply catching up. He and Sancho were friends. He knew about Tory—and I wanted to know about the Battle of Bywater.” That ill-begotten battle was the last thing I would ever discuss, but Tilly didn’t know that.

Her green eyes opened wide. “My dear, I am surprised. Talking about Tory—you know that does no good. You should be putting that behind you, not wallowing in it and foisting it upon others. It’s frightfully rude to poor Frodo.”

Less gossip. At the price of appearing to be not only Brandy Hall's madwoman, but an unmannerly one at that. “I daresay you are right. I shall certainly remember that if I see him again.”

She went on casually. “You haven’t felt social, I know, sweetheart. Have you had many visitors lately? Do tell.” 

I was caught out by the change of subject. Was Frodo not what she had wanted to talk about? As for me, I’d had no visitors except… Oh. More inward cursing. Tilly obviously knew the answer to her question. I forced a smile, and said, “Actually, no. Merry stopped by last night, and Opal let him in before I could tell her that I didn’t wish to see anyone. He didn’t stay long.”

The pleasant smile on Tilly's face slipped a bit. But of course, her first cousin was Estella Bolger, who’d been all-but-betrothed to Merry for the longest time. “How nice,” she said. “Merry is such a dear. Doesn’t think twice about chaperones or improprieties or anything.”

I wondered how she would look with a pitcher of cream poured atop her head and controlled myself with an effort. I was long past the age of needing a chaperone, for pity’s sake. I was a widow! I smiled. “Improprieties, really? With Estella—oh no, you meant…what funny little thoughts you have! I remember when I was young and worried about such things!” I chuckled and took a sip of my tea. 

She looked annoyed and her eyes narrowed. “Why was Merry visiting?” There was an unspoken ‘you, of all people’ hanging in the air. 

I knew I should probably just come out with it. There was really no sense in delaying the inevitable. It was quite impossible to keep secrets in Brandy Hall. Instead, I kept on smiling and didn’t say a word.

She began to look a bit strained…and surprised. Finally, she got up and murmured her farewells, kissing my cheek coolly.

After she’d left, I felt more out of step than ever. Tilly would no doubt tell half the Hall that I was not only mad with grief, but turning eccentric to boot. And trying to seduce Merry. Or Frodo. Although discussing him had been a feint that I had fallen right into. _Stupid, Tansy, stupid_! I groaned inwardly and threw my knitting across the room in a temper.

Brandy Hall had never felt more constrained and constricted. I considered taking some poppy but held back. It was reserved for the future. I felt more sympathy than I should toward the foolhardy Baggins who’d fled the overbearing Shire and thrown his life away. I passed a difficult, restless night, and next morning found me again up at dawn. 

I took my time dressing and bathing the next morning. The brown and black work dresses I usually grabbed seemed terribly worn. I looked at the clothes in my wardrobe in dissatisfaction. White... Pink… Yellow… None of those would do at all. I paused at a leaf-green dress with a brown underskirt. Green on Frodo had made him look ill. Green on myself, however…. I held it up experimentally. With my darker coloring, it looked rather nice. I put this dress on, and dropped the other in the wash pile. 

Neither Dahlia nor Opal came ‘round for breakfast. I had tea and slightly stale cakes and waited until nine before setting out for the cemetery. The usual route seemed to fly by and I was aware of an unaccustomed anticipation. Frodo might be sorrowful but he would set no snares or traps in our conversation. He would not expect me to look at my child's tombstone and be unmoved, to chatter away about crop yields and harvest-times as if they were the most important things in the World. 

But when I arrived, Frodo was not there. I sat down next the graves and let the familiar weight of grief roll over me. For the first time in months, it was not overwhelming, leaving me still able to think and look around and wonder where everyone else had gone. 

I stayed until second breakfast. Then with no real clear destination, I rose and headed for the dining room. The warm appetizing smells of cooking filled the air as I neared it. Esmeralda customarily served a hot second breakfast, with eggs and meats. Not too many of the residents of Brandy Hall bothered to come down for first breakfast, preferring tea and cakes in their rooms. The weather was fine and I was hungry. I certainly was not looking for anyone.

As I walked into the room, I saw Opal, Torric and Dahlia. Opal’s mouth fell open when she saw me. “Tansy! You came down for breakfast!”

Dahlia clicked her tongue. “Well, to what or to whom do we owe this pleasure?”

I smiled, hiding my annoyance at the question. _You've been too solitary_ , I chided myself. _First, overreacting to Tilly and now this. Hobbits always mind each other’s business_. “No particular reason at all. I just missed my favorite relations this morning.”

“My dear, sit down and eat then,” Torric said. I looked around and saw Merry sitting a short distance away. 

“Let me say good morning to Merry, Torric.” Merry was alone, poring over some papers. When I came over, he looked up and smiled.

“Hullo, Tansy, looking for Frodo?” I hesitated, aware of the people at the next table who had stopped eating and looked over at us. That was Merry to a fault, saying whatever came into his fool head with no thought as to what people would say. I had _not_ come to the dining hall solely in the hope of finding Frodo. 

“Frodo? You mean, Frodo Baggins? No, indeed. Why would I?” Merry’s pleasant face creased and I realized that I had only moments before ‘because you’ve been spending time together’ popped out of his mouth. Unless I yelled at him. Or threw something at him. That would give the next table an eyeful. “Patience. If you leave in a huff, you’ll regret it,” I muttered to myself. 

Merry looked confused. “You’re leaving? I thought you were going to eat.”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” I said briskly. “I was thinking out loud. But since _you_ bring it up, how fares Mr. Baggins?” The hobbits looking at us lost interest and returned to their food.

Merry shrugged. “I haven’t seen him. I assume he got up late, since he wasn’t around at breakfast either. You could go check. He’s staying in the Blue Room. Do you know where that is?”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that. I’ll just wait and perhaps I’ll see him later today. I hope you appreciate this, by the way.”

“Yes, I am most grateful,” he replied, with a glint suspiciously like laughter in his eyes.

I went back and sat down with Tory’s family to eat. After a bit, Mentha came over to sit next to me. “Hullo, dear,” she said easily. She was my age, Hall-born and bred and we’d always been friendly. She was a typical Brandybuck: clever, a little roguish, and with flexible attitudes toward things like ‘rules’. 

“Good morning, Mentha.” 

“What on earth did you do to upset Tilly? She told me you were setting your cap for Merry. Something about a mysterious visit in the middle of the night. I told her that was ridiculous since I happened to know it was my sister Melilot who was after Merry and she rushed off like mad.”

I looked at her reproachfully. “That wasn’t very nice to poor Melilot. She hasn’t the wit to handle Tilly.” 

She sniffed. “Poor Melilot deserves it. I’m sick of her making eyes at my Everard. He hasn’t even noticed, the dear thing, and if he did, he’d be terribly shocked. Mama keeps saying she’ll grow out of this childishness once her marriage is arranged, but I’m none too sure of it myself. After all, we all thought Tilly would settle down but that's yet to happen. What did Merry want?”

I really didn’t want to say, even to Mentha. “Just a favor. And it was eight o’clock, not the middle of the night.”

Mentha laughed. “Well, that’s a nicely roundabout way of not answering! I am gracefully reprimanded. But wait, there was something else. About the melancholic master of Bag End.”

“I ran into him quite by chance.” I did the day before yesterday, anyway, I qualified mentally. 

“And?”

I wasn’t sure I could articulate it so that she would understand, at least without feeding further gossip. “He’s had some troubles while he was Away,” I said finally. “I think he feels a bit done in. I can sympathize.” 

Mentha began to look uncomfortable with such talk and I suppressed a flash of resentment. Was I supposed to pretend that I wasn't grieving? That he wasn't? “Well, that makes perfect sense,” she said hastily. “I didn’t think it could be anything else. He’s changed so much I almost didn’t recognize him in the hallway last eve.”

After she left, I had a difficulty deciding what to do next. On the one hand, it would be forward of me to go knocking at his door. I would be presuming on a long acquaintance but very short friendship. On the other, I myself knew all too well how easily one could get lost in melancholy, to the exclusion of all else. That finally decided me. I kissed Tory’s family goodbye.

I headed off to the Blue Room, one of Brandy Hall’s many guest quarters. The private suites belonging to the Master of the Hall took up most of that wing. It was tucked into a quiet corner, and traditionally given to close friends of the family. Bilbo used to stay there.

I was standing before it, considering what to say, and trying to gather enough courage to knock, when it was suddenly yanked open. We both started rather violently. I wished I could sink into the flagstones. Frodo recovered first.

“Er… good morning, Tansy,” Frodo said, as if it were entirely commonplace to find someone skulking outside his door. I noted that today he was wearing a blue shirt with dark grey breeches. The blue was a deal more becoming.

“Would you like to come in?” he continued politely. I nodded mutely, and he stood aside and gestured me in. The room was somewhat mussed. A red leather book was thrown across the table, open to a page covered with small neat script. 

I finally found my voice and my words rushed out. “I’m sorry for imposing, but Merry noticed you weren’t around at second breakfast and I wanted to say hello as I’ll be busy with other things the rest of the day and Merry had no time to check on you.” None of that was true, but it sounded better than ‘I was curious why you didn’t come and see me.’ 

He had picked up a teacup and was filling it as I spoke. When I finished, he handed it to me with a slight frown. “I see. I’m sorry I didn’t see you this morning, then. I will miss our discussion.” He sat down at the small table with a sigh. I looked at him closely and saw dark circles beneath his eyes. 

“You look terribly run down, Frodo, and like you need rest. Shall I go?” I asked. In the back of my mind, it struck me that this was the second time I’d rather rudely disparaged his looks. Bother. Dahlia would despair of me. 

He didn’t seem put out, though and smiled faintly. “I did not sleep well, but that is not uncommon. I should apologize. I was doing some writing and the time slipped away from me. Otherwise, I would have met you this morning.”

I sipped my tea as he added sugar and milk to his. Why did everyone keep going on about him losing his looks? True, he was thinner with care-worn lines upon his face, but that was unimportant. He was also kind and gentle…and patient. It wasn’t a quality that I had in abundance, so I appreciated it in others. I made up my mind to stay. I wanted to hear about the Council of Elrond. “Oh, I have some time now if you’re willing to continue.”

He looked surprised. “Very well, then. I guess I had left off just before the Council? I was summoned to the Council of Elrond on my second day awake at Rivendell.” As he talked, he played with the book on the table, flicking idly through the pages, and referring to the maps drawn in it. I was hard put to it to conceal my amazement as he spoke easily of meeting elf-lords and dwarf–lords and wizards as peers, deciding how to defeat the enemy. And taking the Ring upon himself? When I asked about it, he brushed me off lightly and started describing the trek across the plains and to the mountains. 

Despite his long-winded tendencies, I was enthralled with his account of the snow on Caradhras, and made him repeat it twice over. When the lunch-bell rang, he had just begun to recount their flight to Moria. 

“You speak so well,” I said when he paused. “Why, I could almost feel the cold of the snow from your description!” I said, and laid one hand atop his own. His skin was cool to the touch. “You feel chilled as well.” I rubbed his hand between my own.

He startled a little and jerked his hand away. I looked at him in surprise. “That hand is often cold,” he said awkwardly. “It’s an aftereffect of that wound I told you of.” 

I caught my breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” 

“That’s all right. How would you?” He looked away and busied himself with the teakettle, replacing it in its holder over the fireplace. “I think I will go down to luncheon now. Would you like to join me?”

The thought of the other hobbits watching us gave me a spasm of anxiety. “I’m afraid I cannot, Frodo. I have some chores to do.”

“I see. Well, perhaps we will see each other later then.”

“Yes, that would be wonderful,” I answered. I wandered off down the corridor, thinking about snow. I had only seen heavy snow a few times as a child, when I’d been in the northernmost reaches of the Shire with my father. 

Besides being cold, snow was surprisingly wet. Frodo must’ve been soaked through in the snow he described. That would even worse, to be not only cold but with one’s clothes wet and clammy and clinging. I thought about snow and elf-lords and speaking up to a mighty gathering full of critical eyes. It would have been beyond me. I picked up my knitting, shaking my head. Quiet Frodo Baggins. It was a thought. 

To imagine myself in his place, to even imagine how it had been for him... How would Tory have reacted to this new preoccupation? He’d probably laugh himself silly. I had always been a most sensible hobbit…before.


End file.
